The Cleansing 8 – the end of Chapter 1 and beginning Chapter 2

Posted on by Opher

I like to introduce a little satire into my books. Although concerned with aliens and usually futuristic situations (not in this case) I like my tales to reflect the social and political intrigue that runs the world. I like them ‘real’.

As a scientist I like my science based on reality. Here at the end of chapter 1 and beginning of chapter 2 I am setting up some political intrigue.

Onward:

Chameakegra had been in regular contact with Judge Booghramakegra, sending reports and sharing thoughts throughout the assessment. The judge appeared receptive. Shortly after the call from Beheggakegri another message came through.

Judge Booghramakegra’s imposing frame came into focus. The message had been sent to Beheggakegri, but Chameakegra was patched in.

The message was succinct:
I am aware the assessment phase is complete. I am sure you have the implementation in hand and have appointed the correct forces. However, after due consideration, and I am certain you will agree, we cannot afford to dispense with Commander Chameakegra’s intimate knowledge of the Hydrans. I have appointed her joint commander for the operation. — Judge Booghramakegra

Chameakegra felt her mood levitate. She could only imagine Beheggakegri’s response. That judge was a gem, an absolute gem.

Her entire integument turned bright blue. Bring it on!

Chapter 2 – Arrival

Grrndakegra was mopping up after an extermination of an errant civilisation newly discovered in the Perseus Arm of the Milky Way when orders came through from Sang. Beheggakegri was instructing her to gather ships and personnel for a new mission. Her crest bristled, scutes oscillating with black and white waves of bewilderment and anger. She was due a lengthy break. This was not welcome. She had plans — troposphere surfing on a gas giant followed by a retreat on a moon with spectacular views, outrageous luxury, and every form of relaxation known to Giforians. It was all arranged. She deserved it. All she had been uncertain about was whether three male companions would be sufficient given the way she was feeling. Her hormones were up. Now those plans were dashed. She had to take more medication to suppress her oestrus yet again. Infuriating. But she was not in a position to refuse.

The black and white colours flowing through her thoracic plates deepened, joined by waves of yellow annoyance that gave way to pink intrigue as she studied the draft from UFOR headquarters on Gestor. The more she read, the more she realised this was no ordinary operation. Indeed, she had heard of nothing like it. The pink deepened, though green displeasure tinged the edges of her scales. Giforians did not appreciate being ordered around, especially by Sang. That amphibian had an annoying manner, always doing Beheggakegri’s dirty work. Now her leave was cancelled, replaced by a task immensely complicated, even if intriguing: separating aliens into three categories, only one of which was for extermination. What was that about? Somehow she was meant to provide rehabilitation for millions of aliens. That was well beyond her experience.

Grrndakegra took a deep breath and sat back in her command pexi before replying. No rush. She read the brief again to ensure she had not misunderstood. Reaching out with clenched talons, she operated the controls and barked orders. The mopping up was to be done super‑quick. All leave cancelled. Another mission. She knew her crew would not be pleased. Tough. They would not be as miffed as she was.

She turned her attention back to the brief. No time to dwell on what was lost. Surfing and copulation would have to wait. Messages flew as she organised sufficient force to carry out the unusual, if not unique, mission. Crew were ferried in and out as she prepared for this ridiculous assignment — alien behaviour experts, administrators, control units, armed craft, construction operators, and a large number of Stormtroopers. The more the merrier. She earmarked a contingent of feisty Giforians she had used before. Efficient and effective. She added a batch of truculent Drefs. They would do.

The more she studied the mission, the more complex it became. According to the judge’s brief she was to invade the planet, subdue the population without traumatising them, set up administration, reorganise social and political structures, sort and separate the population, and establish a rehabilitation centre. Who had heard of such a thing? Rehabilitation — what next?

White scutes of anger drove her actions as she assembled craft and personnel. The fact it seemed unachievable did not matter. How were they supposed to abduct aliens without trauma? A nonstarter. Her Giforians specialised in creating trauma. Whoever thought up this scheme needed exterminating.

When everything was in motion, tasks delegated to competent staff, she sat like a statue before her comulator, running through her mental checklist, searching for gaps, weaknesses, further actions. Only when certain she had things under control did she check Commander Chameakegra’s credentials. She suspected they would have a close relationship in the days ahead, as Chameakegra was charged with providing the data for the mission. Shades of pink and green flowed over her crest as she flicked through the information. She did not like what she found. Chameakegra seemed too much of a loose laser. Grrndakegra liked precision. Chameakegra sounded wiffly‑waffly. Time would tell. She hoped Commander Chameakegra had a handle on these aliens. That was the best she could hope.

Grrndakegra flicked on the tridee messenger, composed herself with as much of a blue sheen as she could manage, and prepared to respond to Sang. All was in hand. They were on their way.

The Cleansing – (The Sequel to Judgement): Amazon.co.uk: Forsythe, Ron: 9798278910817: Books

New Eden – A Sci-fi novel – a man-made plague.

Posted on by Opher

This tale of botched government, intrigue, crooked scientists and sinister plans is set in a future world devastated by overpopulation, pollution and the destruction of nature.

What happens when devious politicians come up with drastic solutions. What could possibly go wrong?

A roller-coaster of a read:

New Eden: Amazon.co.uk: Forsythe, Ron: 9798637512867: Books

Extract

George Handley was a small man with longish grey hair swept back from his receding hairline and bushy side-burns. His immaculate pin-stripe suit and Etonian tie were anachronistic by any standards but he wore it with pride and considered it set the tone. It provided him with a bearing of historical gravitas, or at least that was how he liked to see it. His voice was measured and conveyed the same message with its cultured tones and paced delivery. It made him sound aloof and superior.

George grimaced with an expression which suggested he was sucking on something vile. ‘There are just too many of them,’ he noted disdainfully as if he was talking about an invasion of cockroaches. ‘Too many by far.’

Paul Shank allowed himself a reproachful smile. The arrogance of George Handley always amused him. The man certainly had a high opinion of himself. It was all a result of his background and class. Paul himself came from good old American farming stock. His family were wealthy but had none of the pretensions that George Handley projected. His folks were much more down to earth. But that did not prevent him from feeling completely at ease in all company. He was used to rubbing shoulders with the greatest men and women from all walks of life. Nothing fazed him. He would not be in this position if it had.

‘Come now George,’ Paul chided with a light easy manner. ‘Surely we have to have an expanding base? The economy cannot grow without expansion.’

George glowered down at the charts on his screen and flicked it off. He’d seen enough. There was no amusement or lightness of tone in his voice. ‘They are not contributing,’ he pointed out. ‘They serve no purpose. You are all missing the point. You cannot even go downtown without a respirator. Things are desperate.’

‘So what are you suggesting George?’ Pascal Bosco enquired. His dark eyes flashed mischievously. His modern one-piece suit was stylish and comfortable and set the tone for his personality. He was forward looking. He knew how George’s mind worked and liked to bring things out into the open. ‘That we do away with them all?’

‘They serve no purpose,’ George repeated as if this was sufficient in itself. It amply conveyed his opinion. ‘They do not work or contribute to the global economy. They are merely a drain on the financial system. They are unproductive. Their consumption is causing the problem. They do not earn and so are not able to contribute. Not only that, but their very presence is destructive. They are creating the problems we are having to face up to and try to solve. Let’s deal with the root cause.’

Pascal sat back in his chair, laced his fingers and raised his eyebrows, unwilling to take that step despite the fact that he knew it was inevitable. He felt a sinking inside but persisted futilely in focussing on the economic aspect even though he knew it had moved well beyond that. ‘Perhaps consumption is sufficient to stimulate the economy. They provide a need.’

‘They are a canker on the face of the planet,’ George stated bluntly.

‘Come now George,’ Mya Jannot said, reacting to the harshness of his words. ‘There is a trickle down. They, in their own way, are contributing to the global economy. They are consuming.’

‘Not so you would notice,’ George replied huffily. ‘They are parasites. They require eradication. Besides this is no longer an economic issue. You’ve seen the data on climate and the latest pollution figures. It’s unsustainable.’

The room fell into silence as all seven of them reflected on the latest data. The population was spiralling out of control. Drastic action was needed.

53 and imploding – Paperback/Kindle

Posted on by Opher

I wrote this anti-novel/biography/fiction twenty-two years ago. Still love it. It’s authentic, uncompromising and totally real. A stream of thoughts, ideas and views. Here’s an extract:

53 and imploding eBook : goodwin, opher: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store

I am 53 years old. That astonishes me. I am growing old. Already my body aches and shows a strange inability to co-ordinate itself and a lack of suppleness that makes me almost doddery. My mind is not as nimble. I am overweight and unfit and have little desire to be otherwise. I am constantly tired. The wild creature of my youth is distantly glimpsed as a crazy rampaging fool I envy but am detached from. It seems that I am fast becoming an old fool. No sooner have you orientated yourself, got started, than it is almost over. How can that be? Life stretched on forever. Days were eternal. We had time to sit and dream. Ah, that we have lived so long to see our dreams destroyed.

            Seconds. Can’t you feel them ticking. Seconds.

            I can’t write ends. What is an end? Nothing ends. I can only attempt to write beginnings. Even that is absurd. I can write within mere seconds. All of them are now. Each second is an action; a thought; an idea; a memory; an almighty beginning and an almighty end.

There is nothing in the past. Even my memories are new. I make them all anew. They are events seen through these old eyes, thought through these old neurones. Each memory is refined and twisted. We remember the bits we want and some of the bits that we don’t want but most is tossed into the sea of forever. We have no history but the one we build for ourselves.

Seconds. How many left? A few? A few hundred? A few million? It’s not he seconds that count; it’s what you fill them with.

I love old things: rocks; buildings; trees. I love old things because they speak to me of forever. I can sense the magic in them; the hands that have touched them, the imagination that created them and the minds that wondered at them.

Our minds are so puny. We are so arrogant. We think our lives important.

It’s strange how we conveniently forget. We build huge cities and think they will stand forever. We excavate old cities and wonder at their splendour without realising that all our cities will burn, be toppled and forgotten. New cultures may wonder over them and marvel at our cunning – the things we have done with our seconds. They may wonder at our stupidity and how we could possibly have let it all slip between the cracks we created through our selfish greed and vanity.

Archaeologists will carefully brush the dirt from the remains of our lives and piece our dreams together.

This is how we filled our seconds. We are not forever. We are only a brief second in forever, a blink, a swearword, a gasp and ….. gone.